Spider's Web
by FlyghtRysk
Summary: Sam ran away from home and never looked back. Danny ran away from himself and found a snowdrift in the seedy part of town. An alternate universe Danny/Sam fic – rated for mature themes. A re-vamp of a long-dead, abandoned fic from a long-dead abandoned profile- further details in the first chapter and on my profile.


**:Ridiculously Long Author's Note:** So. You might be thinking to yourself, 'Gee, I think I've seen this fic somewhere before.' And you would be right. You have. Well, you might have. It was originally posed under the penname "Divine Red Crayon" circa 2005 and was abruptly abandoned in 2007.

I will just go ahead and stipulate that I have not stolen anything as I am the original author and cannot, as it is physically impossible, steal from myself.

Unfortunately, I have absolutely no idea what my old login information is and cannot access that account any longer. –tear- So I have to re-post this under this new penname and hope that my faithful readers (those who had left the original posting almost 200 reviews) find this version.

This re-posting of Spider's Web is pretty much the bionic version of the original, which is to say, much, much better. Especially as I am now a college graduate with a degree in English and a Creative Writing minor under my belt, as opposed to being an angsty, self-important high school senior. (At one point, I was going to have Sam _**in a band.**_ –gag- It was going to be like an episode of Oprah, except instead of giving everyone cars, it would have been clichés.)

To those of you who are new to this rodeo, I have a link posted on my profile to find the original – you can read the first draft in all of its gawdawful glory. Though I don't know why you would choose to do that to yourself.

Happy reading,

-DD-

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**Title:****Spider's Web**

_**Prolog**_

Samantha Manson had a very deliberate persona. At any given moment, her look might say: 'Watch your step, deadbeat,' or ,'I listen to heavy medal music and probably have a sharp knife stashed somewhere on my person,' or, 'I'm going a little above and beyond the call of duty to blend in with the post-mortem population here,' or some variation thereof (you get the idea). The underlying theme, the thesis, and the general fact of the matter was that Samantha "Sam" Manson was not exactly what you would call "approachable".

Sam's hair was kept an unnatural purplish-black. She preferred dark colors; blacks, grays and purples mostly, which gave her pale white skin an ethereal look. Speaking of, Sam had an enviably creamy complexion which owed itself to her night job and how rarely she stirred out of doors at the same time as the sun. The one aspect of her person that Sam hadn't cultivated from environmental extremities or a box of chemicals was her eyes, which were a gorgeous shade deep lavender.

Despite her eccentricities, Sam's clothing was, in its own way at least, formulaic. Granted, she wasn't so hell-bent on being unappealing that she would intentionally seek unappealing or unflattering clothes, but mainstream the girl was not. Her typical outfit generally involved a combination of plaids, fishnets, safety pin alterations, assorted bangles of all materials, colors, and sizes, chain-linked or studded belts, and finally the most enduring accessory: combat boots. And although she didn't carry a knife on her person at all times as her clothing and demeanor might suggest, she was rarely without a purple canister of pepper spray which she kept clipped to her waist in a faux-leather holster.

The average person on the street, not being an extra in a steam-punk movie, might be more prone to cross the street to avoid the girl than strike up a conversation. They took in her appearance, her posture and facial expressions, and that was usually enough to kill any impulse they might have on digging deeper – on seeing the true, raw Samantha Manson.

Which was, as hinted, all kind of the point.

The poster children of Samantha Manson's interpersonal relationship foibles and apprehension would have to be her parents, whose own relationship was not exactly what one would consider healthy.

Or sane.

Sam supposed that, at one point, they were probably in love. At least a little. But by the time she hit high school, their marriage was strictly in title only. Divorce was flat out of the question; they had appearances to keep up after all –and neither one, despite their flaws, wanted Samantha to have a "broken" home. But the dynamics between Jeremy and Pamela Manson were so warped and so twisted, that it forced Sam to do something very rash and very drastic – which, though you might not have guessed it, was completely out of her character.

At seventeen years old, just shy of high school graduation, red-headed private school attendee Samantha Manson ran away from home and headed to the big city. Amity City.

Even years later, she had moments of doubt and regret, wishing she hadn't left the high walls and gates of her parent's mansion, wishing that she hadn't dropped out of high school. But then again… it usually wasn't too difficult for Sam to find something to make her thankful for her choices, at least partially.

She had tried to be smart about leaving home. Sam had packed a stockpile of toiletries and raided the pantry, she had her laptop (a top of the line deal she'd gotten for her seventeenth birthday) which would take care of her entertainment needs, clothes, bedding, and even a couple towels. She also brought with her about two-hundred and fifty dollars in cash. Sam withdrew the money in slow increments in the days and weeks before her planned departure so as not to draw attention to it. She couldn't use a debit or credit card because they would be able to trace her with it, and that was unacceptable. She could have taken more money easily, but one of the main motivating factors which even prompted the runaway in the first place was the lure of independence.

And it was challenging to be independent when you depended on someone else's money.

Besides, she felt guilty. Her parents, who were all smiles and social and well adjusted in public, were none too subtle at home and often let drop that one of the reasons they put up with their marriage for so long was because of their daughter. Well, that and the fact that Jeremy Manson needed to be 'the family man' if he wanted to maintain his good standing in the local Rotary Club and/or run for an elected office. And they had their moments, brief and far between though they were, when they seemed almost halfway decent.

But mostly, they just fought and she was in the middle of it.

Still, Sam never exactly warmed to the idea of causing them more problems, despite the problems they so consistently dumped on her. It was not in her nature to be vindictive or cruel, if she could help it.

So, she piled up everything into her car (a black Prius – which had been given to her on her sixteenth birthday), and drove away.

Unfortunately, Sam had little experience budgeting money in her life. The money she had with her was half gone only six days after she'd arrived. Though to be fair, most of it had gone towards a night in a motel room (a very seedy place, as it would be cheap and the curator would be less likely to check her ID), and inky black hair dye to make her harder to find. Really, this was the whole start of her deliberate persona- a drastic alteration to her appearance to hide from her family and protect herself from any nosy Good Samaritans. Sam had also sold majority of her clothes to a second-hand shop and bought, in exchange, an assortment of outfits that only appealed to her because they looked nothing like the preppy clothing her parents always supplied her with.

Still, realizing she had blown halfway through her safety net was a wake up call. And it didn't help matters that the economy was quickly falling to pieces and she wasn't exactly the most hirable of people with no real job experience and no high school diploma. To top it off, there was no way she'd be able to support herself in the city with only a part time job at the local Nasty Burger (so she deigned to apply there at all). But Sam was determined to stick it out and follow through. It was the principal of the thing.

A week and a half in the city found Sam almost completely broke, tired, hungry, unemployed and living in her car. She was miserable and just shy of giving up and returning home. And it was on that day, three weeks in, that her tables turned.

Sam had left her Prius in the parking lot of the SuperMart Shopping Emporium, wanting to preserve her remaining half-tank of gas for emergencies only. She decided to walk around the city to job hunt on foot. And it was then, as she rounded a corner, that she literally ran into the person who would change her life. They sprawled on to the ground.

"Oh shit!" a young woman cried, her voice high and pitchy as she leapt to her feet. "Oh God, I'm _so_ sorry!" She reached a hand down for Sam. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," Sam grunted taking her hand and hauling herself up. "I'll be alright."

Sam thought it looked like the girl had stumbled off the set of _Pretty Woman_ pre-Richard Gere. She didn't want to jump to conclusions, but the combination of the girl's teased hair, tight shirt, short skirt and indecently high heels all hinted night walker. Her makeup, however, screamed it, being far too flashy for day – _or _night for that matter.

But maybe, Sam reasoned to herself, she's less of a _Pretty Woman_ Julia Roberts and more of an _Erin Brockovich_ Julia Roberts.

"Let me buy you lunch as an apology, 'kay?" She cocked her head to the side and stretched her mouth into a big smile. She had very white teeth.

"That's okay," Sam brushed off her pants. "I'm fine, really; you don't have to."

"Oh, but I _insist_!" Her smile never faltered. "You _can't_ refuse!"

Sam shrugged; she _was_ hungry, "If you insist."

She squealed with delight and stuck out her hand, "I'm Lydia, by the way. And you are?"

"Sam." She shook her hand and was caught off guard when Lydia threw her arm around her neck and started guiding her to a near-by diner. Lydia didn't seem to have any apprehension whatsoever to Sam's new hair and wardrobe choices – or the fact she hadn't exactly been able to bath properly in a couple days.

They were seated in a booth by the window. Then Lydia started asking questions.

"So what brings you to Amity?"

"I, well… –I sort of ran away from home," Sam admitted bashfully. It sounded lame now that she'd said it out loud. It sounded like something a five year old would do.

"Really? How long have you been here?" Lydia asked. "When do you plan to go home?"

"I've been here almost three weeks," Sam replied. "And I _don't_ plan on going home."

"I see." Lydia fiddled pensively with the straw of her cherry coke. "And just how old are you, anyway?"

"Seventeen."

Lydia slapped the table, her silver bangles clanked together. "Wow!" She declared, "That's _so_ funny!"

"Is it?" Sam asked carefully. Nothing about the situation seemed particularly funny to her.

"…'Cause it's like, _no_ shit! I did the _same_ thing!" She smiled at Sam warmly.

Sam's eyes widened –Lydia meant _ironic_ funny, not _ha-ha_ funny. She wondered with horror if she staring at her future. "…You did?"

"Totally!" She nodded with vigor. "So, like, do you have a place to stay yet?"

"I've been staying in my car… so not really."

"Oh my gaaawd!" Lydia shoved Sam's shoulder playfully. "You totally have to come stay with me! I have a couch you can crash on 'till you get on your feet."

"Really?" Sam perked up. "That's so nice and everything, but we've just met and…"

"I know what you're going through," Lydia cut her off, her voice taking an uncharacteristically serious edge. "A car is no place for a girl to live and I _know_ I would have killed for an offer like this when I was in your position. I know it seems kind of sudden an' creepy, but I swear it's all out of the goodness of my heart!" She placed her right hand over her heart and placed her left in the air as though taking an oath. "And also, because I watched _Pay it Forward _last night and I'm nearly positive that our meeting is destiny or something. So what do you say?"

Sam hesitated, but at this moment she didn't really have any other options. It was already November and winter was just around the corner. Soon it would be too cold to stay in the car at night, especially since she couldn't afford the gas to run the heater.

"I… What the hell, sure."

And that was that.

Lydia lived in a part of town that Sam's mother wouldn't have ventured into without an armed escort. Sam was a little reluctant to get out of her car, but figured that if Lydia could handle it, so could she. She followed Lydia down an alleyway that ran between a very sketchy looking shop with blacked out windows that read simply "PAUL'S" and a Laundromat, and up the rickety staircase on the next building they came to. Lydia's front door had a red four painted on the front.

The apartment was more of a glorified closet, really. At least compared to Sam's previous standard of living. It was a studio with a full sized bed tucked in one corner and sanctioned off by a couple accordion screens. The couch was near the front door and practically in what posed as a kitchen, but it looked big and comfortable. Lydia pointed to a corner where Sam could keep her things since the car would not exactly be… safe.

They unloaded everything quickly, lest a car thief get the jump on them.

"I think you should sell it," Lydia observed. "I mean, they can trace you by the license plates and make and model and what-have-you. You might as well dump it, get a cheaper car, and then you'll have a little bit more money to play around with."

Sam was not exactly pleased with the idea, and was less so pleased with how much sense it made. Despite having come from the coffers of her money-grubbing, socially obsessed parents, the little black Prius had a special place in Sam's heart. It was her ticket to freedom, it was her vessel to freedom too, come to that. But Lydia was right. They could trace her, whereas if she traded it out, she would be home free.

Lydia had to work the next day, so Sam was on her own when it came to finding a dealership and a new car to replace her baby. Thankfully, the Prius was a hot commodity and yielded a decent return when she exchanged it for a much older, much less desirable dark green 1990 Saab hatchback. It was hard to make the change, but at least the car could hold a lot of stuff and boasted decent gas mileage –besides, it was so grubby looking and so badly in need of a wash that Sam doubted it would attract many car thieves, which was a type of security you just couldn't buy.

Sam asked about Lydia's job, especially curious because she was so in need of employment.

"Well, Paul is always looking for fresh talent," Lydia shrugged, skirting the issue a little. "When do you turn eighteen again?"

"Paul?" Sam asked. "Do you mean at that little shop called 'Paul's'?"

"Yep!" She chirped. "That's the one! It's a massage parlor and strip club! I'm mainly a dancer, but those massage girls make bank –so I've been known to step in there a couple of times. But you have to be eighteen to work there… or at least, you have to be able to convince everyone you're eighteen."

Sam blanched. "…That's okay. I think I'll just keep plugging away at the Want Ads."

"Suit yourself! But you are passing up a chance to make some easy money, especially looking like you do." She gave same a very suggestive once-over, and then laughed benignly like a five year old.

Thus, Sam learned a few things about her new roommate: Lydia was twenty-one, definitely more of a _Pretty Woman_ Julia Roberts, right down to her heart of gold, had an affinity for cheesy, uplifting dramas, and lastly, that she was not a morning person.

"_Mi casa es su casa_," Lydia told Sam, four days into her stay when her houseguest made her guilt over mooching known. Then Lydia laughed saying that that was all she learned from her three sporadic semesters in high school Spanish class. "Seriously though, make yourself at home, Sam, and stop worrying. It's like that famous quote, 'today for you, tomorrow for me!' Someday _you'll_ be on _your_ feet and then _I'll_ get to take advantage of you like a true friend!" She laughed again, and then flitted out the door to go to 'work'.

While Sam's situation was definitely looking up (anything was an improvement from living in your car), she still couldn't help but wonder, yet again, if it was all a mistake. She was living with someone just shy of being a prostitute, someone she hardly knew for God's sake! It was then her eyes caught sight of the headlines in the morning news paper: "_**Business Tycoon and Wife Mourn the Loss of Their Daughter, Age 17, Missing One Month**_". Two photos were next to the medium sized article, one of her "grieving" parents, and one outdated school picture of herself –which was, true to practice, an awful picture of her squinting at the flash. The article was a touching piece about the husband and wife pulling together in these 'dark times', hoping for the best- but then veered into a campaign for Jeremy Manson to become Chairman of some community board and Sam suddenly remembered why she left in the first place.

'_How quaint_,' she thought, frowning. She tore up the article and turned her attention to the Help Wanted ads instead.

Weeks passed, and Sam's never ending hunt for work turned futile. The money from trading out her Prius had dwindled to nothing, and she was sick and tired of imposing on Lydia. No matter how many times she was told that it 'was all cool', she was desperate for a job and desperate for a place of her own. After she'd been at Lydia's for almost two months and after she'd realized her job situation wasn't going to improve anytime soon, she took Lydia up on her job offer. She would have to shelf her dignity and shake her ass for horny old men.

Lydia was quite thrilled and told her that it really wasn't as bad as it all sounded and she could start out slow, she wouldn't have to do anything she wasn't ready to. Then she was told all about how it was a safe place, and how the pay was great and after a couple weeks working Sam should be able to afford to move out.

Sam's head was spinning as she listened to her friend rattle on and on about Paul's Parlor. She made a solemn promise to herself that it would only be temporary, that she was just seventeen and she had time to find a more suitable job later in life.

Three years and a massive country-wide job shortage later, twenty year old Samantha Manson still worked at Paul's. Only now she lived in her own little one-bedroom apartment in a slightly nicer part of the city. It wasn't the greatest part, but it was far better than Lydia's primo location right behind the parlor – where she insisted on living because, Sam later found out, she got it rent free from a family friend. Sam did not ask for any other particulars about this arrangement, lest she did not like what she heard.

And Sam found the time to get her GED and was whittling slowly away at an Associate's Degree from Amity City Community College. Someday she intended to go to college and put this whole mess behind her, but not interested in worrying about high interest rate loans, or financial aid requiring her parent's information until she turned twenty-four, it was just going to have to remain on the back-burner.

By this point Sam had seen all sorts of characters, most of them paying customers. Some had tried to take advantage of her, some were ashamed, some were shy, some just minded their own business and left. She hated it. She hated the kind of people who came to watch her, but every day on the news she heard about how there were just too many people and not enough jobs. In some areas there was nominal improvement, but most jobs required a level of education Sam just didn't have. It was money or dignity, a source of income or the soup kitchen, an apartment or a box. There wasn't much choice in the matter.

Despite their very obvious differences, Sam and Lydia remained friends. Sam made a point to avoid Lydia's partying crowd, but whenever the girl wanted to take a break from her typically fast-paced lifestyle, she would bunker down with Sam for a night in with movies and wine. Otherwise, Sam just wasn't the social type. She spent her free time searching out new, good music to obsess over, hanging out in dingy little coffee and tea cafés were people read poetry- most of it pretty bad, and haunting around book stores. Animal rights also began to pique her interest. She'd been a vegetarian since before she ran away, and with her growing disconnect with people in general, it only made sense that she would put more effort into caring for innocent, non-asshole-y animals.

In fact, not long after she got her own place, she adopted a black cat named Lilith. She was a pugnacious little thing who dearly loved to trip Sam in the hall and curl up on her freshly washed laundry. But she was good company nonetheless.

As bleak as her occupation was, Sam's life wasn't all that terrible. Plus, all the media hype from when she had left had died down ages ago. She was free. Her life, albeit unconventional, fit. She wasn't exactly that happy. She wasn't a beacon of positivity and bubbly energy like Lydia. Still, her life was hers. And what was a little loneliness in the name of freedom?

Her life and her circumstances did not give her much opportunity to make friends. She was in a rut. She did her thing, kept to a schedule, and tried to ignore the gnawing feeling that something important was missing from her life. A feeling that only got worse when she saw happy couples kissing over a latte in the dark corner of her favorite café, or strolling hand in hand down the sidewalk. Those feelings filled her with self-loathing. She should be better than that.

She hated to think that after everything she'd been through, a part of her still wanted that sappy concept of love. Her parents, the media, her very job- everything told her it was bullshit. At least half the men who visited Paul's had rings on their fingers. It was a load crock. But regardless of what she told herself, Sam couldn't shake the desire. And she hated that more than anything else in her life.

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**:AN:** For the record, I hate prologs. A lot. It's just a bunch of summary and really only a means to an end. The next chapter is when things really take off, become entertaining, and above all, interesting. I would estimate an update within a few days time because I'm having oodles of fun re-writing it.

And just a reminder- I am the original author. You can complain to DRC all you want about fic stealing, but I can guarantee you the complaints will fall on deaf years because I can't access that email or profile anymore.

Review and let me know how awesome I am.

-DD-


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